Forgive Me
by ShoyDragon
Summary: Sherlock won't stop apologizing. Oneshot, Angst


**Title**: Forgive Me  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Sherlock won't stop apologizing.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: ~2000  
><strong>Characters<strong>: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes  
><strong>Pairings<strong>: None  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: minor spoilers for _The Reichenbach Fall_, implied character death, mild swearing, angst

**Disclaimer**: _Sherlock_ is a production of the BBC and is owned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. The original Sherlock Holmes stories were written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I, the author, am making no profit or money from the posting of this fan-fiction.

_Author's Note: Tumblr was down and I was feeling angst-y, so this happened. Un-beta'd and not Brit-picked, so if you see any mistakes, let me know. This is my first fic in the _Sherlock _verse, so I'd love any and all feed-back you have for me. Thanks! _

* * *

><p>The first time it happens, John nearly passes out.<p>

There had been a funeral about a month previously. John remembers sitting between Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and trying not to feel anything. He nearly lost it when Mycroft stood up to give the eulogy, but his anger at the other Holmes had melted into a sort of resigned pity, so instead he offered a new handkerchief to his sobbing land-lady and kept his face neutral; the bravery of a soldier.

He also remembers going back to Baker Street that evening and curling up to sleep on the sofa, wrapped in _his_ silk dressing gown and dreaming of sand and blood and falling bodies and concrete and pain. He refused to acknowledge the tears on his face when he woke the next morning or how disappointed he was to not see someone hunched over the microscope on the kitchen table.

He's at Tesco's, which is how he knows it isn't real. John is staring at the milk and concentrating hard on not thinking about how milky _he _liked his tea when out of the corner of his eye he sees a looming figure in a familiar coat and John forgets how to breathe. He turns hesitantly, heart pounding, not quite believing his eyes. Sherlock Holmes smiles at him in the dairy aisle.

"Hello, John."

It's the same deep voice that he has been struggling to remember, the same soft smile _he_ had saved only for John, and the army doctor feels his knees turn to water as he stares at the impossible.

"Sh-"

The figure shakes his head, smile falling. "Don't," he hisses, stepping closer. He's too close, leaning in to whisper in John's ear, looming over the smaller man. "I'm sorry, John. I never meant… I never meant for things to happen the way they did."

John is frozen, his heart clenching in his chest.

"I did it to protect you, you know," Sherlock continues, as if he can just explain away the last month of grieving, explain away the confusion and hurt and loss that had been eating John from the inside. "He would have killed you without a second thought, and I couldn't have that… I'd be lost without my blogger, after all."

Something inside John is breaking, but he can't help but laugh breathlessly all the same.

"I'm so sorry, John. I never meant to hurt you… I hope you can forgive me some day."

"I-"

"Don't forget, I prefer skim."

John's head reels. "I remember," he snaps, whirling around. "I remember what kind of milk you like and what kind of beans you like and how you like your bloody tea! I also remember watching you fall and if you think you can just apologize and fix everything-"

"Are you alright, sir?"

John jerks away from the hand on his shoulder and nearly punches the elderly lady who's staring at him with concern. He blinks in confusion, suddenly aware that he's been shouting at nothing and making a scene. Sherlock isn't there; he can't be.

"I- I'm sorry," he chokes out, shaking. "I thought…" He stumbles away from the dairy case and nearly knocks over a display of energy drinks. People are staring as he runs from the shop.

John prides himself in not breaking until he's back at Baker Street, leaning against the front door panting and sobbing and trying to ignore how everything reminds him of Sherlock.

He moves in with Harry the next day.

* * *

><p>The next time it happens, John is having a particularly long day at surgery. Fall has come, bringing with it chilly nights and far too many colds. After telling what feels like the ten thousandth patient of the day that the best they can do is rest and drink plenty of fluids, John collapses into his desk chair. He knows he's lucky to have this job, grateful to Sarah for all she's done to help him keep it, but it's on days like these he wishes he could just stay in bed.<p>

He had moved out of Harry's after staying there three weeks, unable to handle her constant drinking and need to argue. The flat he was living in now was small and dingy, but it was all he could afford, so he dragged himself to surgery five days of the week just to keep a roof over his head.

The door opens without a knock and John looks up. Sherlock is standing there, looking windswept and heroic and scowling at John like he's not where he's supposed to be.

"You've moved out of Baker Street."

John stiffens, shock and anger fighting each other in his head. The statement feels like an attack.

"You died," he snaps back, irritated and sad and so, _so_ tired.

"I had to, John," Sherlock says, sweeping into the room. "I wish there had been another way, but I had to appear to be dead or you would have been killed… Not just you, either. He had assassins set for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade too. If I didn't fall, you all would have died."

"Yea, well, clearly you didn't manage to die properly yourself either." John doesn't know why he's angry. It's probably better than hysterics, in any case. "I trusted you, Sherlock," he hisses. "I trusted you and you couldn't even tell me what was going on. I could have helped."

"You really couldn't, John. It was something I had to do myself."

"I had to WATCH!" John barks, only dimly aware that shouting in the surgery is not good. "I had to watch you throw yourself off a building, Sherlock! So don't you DARE tell me it was for my own good…" He stands up, wanting nothing more than to punch the man on the other side of his desk. "How dare you let me fall apart. Do you have any idea how hard it's been, Sherlock? Do you have any idea what you've done to me?" John's anger is slipping, tears forming behind his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock whispers. "I really never meant to hurt you… If there had been any other way… I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you. I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry…"

"I know," John sobs, collapsing back into his chair and pressing his face into his hands. "Christ, I know, Sherlock… I'm sorry too."

"John?"

He jumps, looking up to see Sarah peeking into his office. There is no sign of Sherlock.

"That was your last patient, if you want to duck out for the day," she says softly.

"Yea, thanks," John mutters, wiping his eyes hurriedly and snatching up his coat. "See you tomorrow, then."

"See you tomorrow," Sarah responds, smiling slightly.

John tries to ignore the pitying look she gives him as he leaves and all the worried glances he gets as he passes through the waiting room.

* * *

><p>Ella tells him he's compensating, says that if he can talk himself out of the hallucinations they'll stop happening.<p>

"I know it hurts, John," she says. "But you have to remember that it isn't real. He's dead, John, and no amount of imagining can bring him back. You have to let him go…"

John stops going to his appointments after he sees Sherlock standing behind her chair a few sessions later, grim-faced but undeniably real-looking. Eventually, she stops trying to call and reschedule.

* * *

><p>By the fifth time it happens John isn't surprised any more. He's walking through Regent Park when suddenly Sherlock is sitting on a bench waiting for him. When John limps past without acknowledging him, Sherlock simply stands and follows.<p>

"I'm sorry to see your limp is back, John," he says softly. "I thought we had fixed that."

"Yea, well, I haven't exactly been running all over London with you for the last six months," John grinds out, speaking through clenched teeth and avoiding eye contact with the jogger approaching them. Sherlock barely avoids getting run over.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get back to you, John. You're taking this better than I thought you would."

"That's because I know you aren't real, Sherlock," John whispers. "You died and my grieving brain doesn't know how to cope so I'm imagining that I'm talking to you."

"I didn't die, John… I had to pretend to protect you, but I didn't die. I'm back now, John. I'm really here."

"No, you really aren't."

Sherlock is stunned. "Of course I'm here. Look at me, John. Look at me! I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you… But you need to stop pretending. I'm back, John. I came back for you."

John stops and shakes his head fiercely. "You aren't back, Sherlock. You can never be back… I can't keep doing this. I can't…" He chokes, eyes burning. "I can't keep hearing you apologize, Sherlock."

Sherlock stares at him, utterly dejected. John walks away from him, gripping his cane tightly and finds himself sitting on the front step of 221b. He doesn't stop shaking until Mrs. Hudson discovers him and drags him inside for tea.

* * *

><p>On the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, John and Mrs. Hudson go together to visit his grave. She brings flowers and he tries hard not to remember how the blood had spread over the concrete. Neither of them says much and they get in separate cabs to go their separate ways afterwards.<p>

Sherlock is in the cab John catches, looking apprehensive and excited. "Hello, John."

John's heart lurches as he climbs in and sits down. "Not really the best day for this, Sherlock," he snarls.

"I thought it was the perfect day to come back… I'm sorry I left without any indication I was okay, but it was for your own protection… I really am sorry, John."

"You're a bastard," John mutters to the seats, ignoring the other man and how hard it is for him to breathe. "It's been exactly a year since I last saw you, Sherlock. I know you love being dramatic, but this is just too much. You can't leave people for a year and expect things to just fall back into place. It's… It's not fair."

"Life isn't fair, John."

John chokes out a laugh. "Believe me, Sherlock, I know."

* * *

><p>Each time it happens, John finds himself less and less distressed. He stops hoping that maybe this time it's actually real. He stops thinking that maybe this time Sherlock really is back, stops wishing there really was a way he could have survived.<p>

By the second anniversary of Sherlock's death, John finally stops praying for a miracle.

* * *

><p>"John…"<p>

"You aren't real, Sherlock, go away."

"But John, I-!"

"Stop it, Sherlock. I have work."

"But I came back for you, John…"

"You can never come back for me, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>"John..?"<p>

"… No."

* * *

><p>Eventually, John stops answering.<p>

* * *

><p>Sometimes, Sherlock is persistent, shouting his name and begging for John to acknowledge him. He pleads for forgiveness and apologizes over and over. The hardest part for John to hear is how he did it. Every time he appears, Sherlock has a different explanation for how he survived the fall. Some of the explanations are insane; some of them make a scary amount of sense. All of them hurt John more than they possibly should.<p>

"Molly faked my autopsy."

"I landed in a laundry truck."

"I hid my pulse with a rubber ball in my armpit."

"I took a rhododendron extract to slow my heart and breathing."

"I didn't really fall."

"I didn't really die."

"I didn't really die, John. I'm right here. Why won't you look at me? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, John! I didn't want to do it, but I had no other choice. Look at me, John. Please. Please just look at me!"

* * *

><p>It still happens, but now, every time John sees a flash of that coat or catches a tall figure looming in the corner of his vision, he just turns the other way.<p>

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry, John... I'm so sorry."<p>

* * *

><p>Eventually, Sherlock stops appearing altogether.<p>

* * *

><p>On the third anniversary of his death, John visits Sherlock's grave alone.<p>

"I think I'm ready to forgive you," he admits softly.

There is no reply.

He isn't expecting one.


End file.
